


kill our way to heaven

by paintedviolet



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, Vampire AU, Vampire!Doctor, a well-aimed kick to a sensitive part, badass yasmin khan, but a little something just for you, dark!yaz, dubious men, evil!doctor, separate to my other vampire au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:55:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23958025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paintedviolet/pseuds/paintedviolet
Summary: It's a dark world Yasmin Khan has found herself in. Fortunately for her, it comes with perks.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/Yasmin Khan
Comments: 16
Kudos: 47





	kill our way to heaven

**Author's Note:**

  * For [timedork](https://archiveofourown.org/users/timedork/gifts).



> happy birthday mel! a little birdie told me you liked vampire!doctor so, well, here's the doctor being dangerous (and also hot). hope you're having a wonderful birthday!

These are the roads of Sheffield that cling to the night. They are flanked on each side by multiple-floor buildings, Sheffield brick, salted cherry red darkening in the overhead cloud and shadow. They embrace it, will the dark onto the pavements here; the residents. The night is almost permanent; when the day does end, it does so with the promise of a colder win, a darkness so prominent it has its own taste in the air.

Metallic, Yaz thinks. Metallic, under the soaking of beer and ale and bad decisions.

These are the inner-city streets that embrace the night. Overhanging buildings and bad decisions come to cradle her under their steady, sturdy guide. She knows they watch out for her, watch her as she walks. They keep a close eye on her, for she was as unknown as they come.

She used to feel the eyes on her back. These are the type of streets to love the tingle on the back of your back; that consuming knowledge leaving a passer-by frantic in their paranoia.

So many bad decisions. So many great decisions. She can’t really discern the two anymore.

One time in her life, she would’ve kept her head down, tried to look like everyone else.

A few turns from where she walks now, there is a bar—raucous, and filled with the loud types. Greasy and unkempt, sweaty slicked-back hair and pulsing to the thumping music. She can feel the pulsing in her skin, the shuddering bass escaping down street corners to remind her, repeat to her, what is to come.

She dreads it. She dreads it. The place, mostly, where she feels out of sorts and frozen in indecision. She keeps the lapels of her coat tight, wrapping them over each other as far as they will go, the way a mother bundles a new born in a blanket. But she is on her own, aiming to push through the throng of sweaty strangers, to find one particular person. One particular woman.

The wind riles up around her, and the hairs on the back of her neck stand to attention. There is a rustle nearby, a clattering of something metal, and she twitches.

A round of laughter. Some sniggering and some chortling, delivered through the grizzled lungs of grizzled men. Easy banter, but nothing is easy here; nothing is pure. On the other end of the street, a group of men are making their way toward her. Her fear spikes immediately—she can feel it jump through her insides and onto her shoulders. This is not the place for a young woman to meet a group of men.

No sooner does she spot them than they spot her. The conversation between friends twists into something uglier, but no less communal—verbal appraisals, egging each other on.

Yaz’s heart is in freefall. The bar is so close. She is so close. Her hand trails down into her pocket to clasp around her phone. With any luck, she can call for help before she has to use her legs, before she has to rely on the hypothetical heroism of a place renowned for turning a blind eye to things like this: to fear, to murder, to death.

When the five men are an arms’ length away, the game begins. ‘Hell- _o_ ,’ the first man calls. He grins at her so wide she fears his face will split into two.

‘What a nice surprise!’ another exclaims. ‘Rich pickings tonight, lads.’

‘Excuse me,’ she murmurs, hoping against hope to push past them—but they form a blockade on the path, excitement cloying the air between them.

The first man smiles at her again. His canines protrude unusually, curving into sharp ends.

They are stained yellow, a dirty yellow. Somehow, Yaz doesn’t think it is from a lifetime of drinking hot beverages. Her stomach drops, falling further when all the men show the same… upgrade.

If she presses the side buttons of her phone three times, she can bring up an emergency contact. But it is fiddly, and her arm moves as she attempts it. It’s too noticeable, so she gives up, and settles instead of clasping a key between her third and fourth finger.

The five of them have held onto old habits—only just. Their attire is just a little too formal for a night out around here, just a little too pristine. High collars and showy trousers. And _cufflinks_. Most—alive—men round here wouldn’t dare look so fancy at a bar in cufflinks, not unless they wanted to get robbed.

The bar. She is so close. Internally, Yaz prays for a miracle.

‘I don’t think you wanna go down there, love,’ a third man says. He has shoulder-length hair, a deep brown, and he is exceedingly pretty. A shame he hangs around with these sorts. ‘Not safe for a young lass like you.’

‘I’m going to meet someone,’ she tries.

‘But we’re not finished with ya,’ another complains. The others murmur their agreements, comments passed between them like secrets.

So, she announces, ‘I’m going to meet the Doctor.’

The name travels through the air like a gunshot. Immediately, the men fall silent.

‘You’re what?’ the third man asks. His hair flutters delicately in the breeze.

Yaz remembers to keep her head high, her feet planted apart. Muscles tense, ready to go at a moment’s notice.

‘You heard. And she won’t be best pleased—’

She’s pressed up against the wall in a second, the rough, uneven brick digging into her back. It happens so quickly she can barely process it, but even as she struggles against the arm he has pressed onto her throat, she keeps her head up all the same. Stares directly into the eyes of the first man, something evil twisting his otherwise handsome features.

‘I don’t think you will be,’ he sneers.

‘Dude,’ she hears from behind her assailant. ‘I don’t think we should be—’

‘ _She_ ,’ her attacker snaps, ‘is not our boss. I will do what I bloody well like.’

And Yaz has to laugh at this. She’s not been in this part of society for long, but she knows how things work here; how the whole of Sheffield seems to fall at her knees.

‘I dare you,’ she grits out. His arm on her throat pushes harder. Fury replaces the oxygen she needs. The others no longer exist to her—in this moment, it is just her and this vampire, this arrogant sod, the glaze of jealousy ridiculing his bravado. She can see his canines, but she can bare her teeth too. ‘I _dare_ you to kill me.’

He doesn’t breathe anymore, but the shake of the moment courses through him. Indecision, the subtle undermining—it is all she needs. She jabs her key into his front, and when he recoils, mostly out of surprise rather than pain, she drives a knee up into his groin.

She is delighted to find that this is still a sore spot for vampires.

The others wince audibly, and a couple have started showing off their fangs in anticipation of a brawl. But, helpfully, they don’t move. They don’t help her whining friend, and they don’t attack her.

Yaz is aware that they very much could, except—

‘Boys.’

The chill of excitement sets Yaz’s spine alight. At this point, it is a Pavlovian response: the ice and fire of hearing her, of thinking of her, of imagining her. Forbidden fruit and the birth of temptation. Yaz _knows_ it, so intimately. It is the heathen’s response, but she begs for it.

Once again, the five men freeze. It is fascinating seeing the stranglehold this one woman has over the world, seeing it happen before her eyes.

The Doctor never seems to walk anywhere; she just appears, as if the will to be somewhere is enough of a journey. And perhaps it is for a vampire. But when she does arrive, her presence is not the temporary, inconsequential thing an _appearance_ might suggest. All spaces simply wait for her to inhabit them—and now she is here, they all know it.

High heels clack on cold pavement, slow and deliberate. Everyone else is left to shake from the sound—though for Yaz, it is very much for a different reason.

Fire and ice, the holy and the damned. She drowns in it. She closes her eyes to revel in it.

Thre is a finger trailing the length of her shoulders, pushing past her collar to find the abre skin of her neck. God—her body sings. Then it is gone, and she feels leave, feels the absence of touch, of blessing.

The Doctor steps in front of her. ‘So,’ she addresses the crowd—five men, four standing, one crouched, all trembling. ‘I heard there was a commotion.’

‘We were just—we were just interested,’ Long Locks rushes. ‘Young woman, on these streets…’

The Doctor yawns. ‘Yeah, I got that, thank you. And what happened to you, Maxwell?’ She pouts at him. ‘Did the lady hit you where it hurts?’

Every moment of the Doctor’s is precise. Lithe, and practiced, she moves slowly, placing a finger on the first man’s—Maxwell’s—head and circling him like prey.

When she turns her back on the other men, Yaz can see the fullness of her up close: the frills of the lapels on her 19th century-esque blouse; the straps round her shoulders of her navy blue shaped bodice, all the buttons on her front, leading to the trousers wrapping round her thighs and calves. And when hazel eyes glance up at Yaz, they pierce straight into the very depths of her. She smiles, a crooked thing on a crooked mouth, and sharp teeth peek through.

Maxwell’s life is entirely in the Doctor’s hands, and Yaz can’t help but tremble at the sight of her.

Maxwell won’t talk. He can’t.

No honour amongst vampires, Yaz thinks.

‘I was speaking to you, Maxy,’ the Doctor prompts. It’s sing-song, laced with sweet poison.

‘Y—Yes,’ he stammers. Yaz should probably be relieved for him.

‘Yes, what?’ the Doctor demands. She grips the top of his head now.

‘Yes, miss—’

She forcefully shakes his head about. He whimpers.

There is a savage beauty here, and Yaz should dislike that thought. But she is long past redemption.

‘No,’ the Doctor growls. ‘Try again.’

‘Yes, D—Doctor.’ He is so eager to get it right.

This is, of course, futile; Yaz realises that now. She can see the moment it happens in the Doctor’s eyes: satisfaction snapping into boredom.

‘Hm. Good,’ she decides, and then effortlessly sends his head smashing into the wall. It hits with a resounding crack.

He doesn’t get up.

Is it death if he’s already dead? Should she mourn? Yaz doesn’t know. She doesn’t know if she should feel guilty, or horrified, or relieved. So she feels all three—but not enough, not anymore. Never enough anymore.

The Doctor spins on the balls of her feet, to face the remaining vampires. Fear has consolidated in their eyes. Long Locks is ready to flee.

‘Right, boys,’ the Doctor chirps, and her switch from deadly to downright chipper is perhaps the most disarming thing about her. ‘Try not to be as stupid as this one, will you? I hate having to find someone to clean up the mess.’ They blink in shock at her. She moves as if to leave, before turning back to them once more. ‘By someone, I mean you lot. Obviously. Chop chop.’

None of the men look at Yaz or the Doctor as they descend on Maxwell’s body. Hauling a limb each, they pointedly avoid the possibility of colliding into either woman, heads down in fear of retribution. It is satisfying in a cruel way, Yaz decides, to watch these men go. They disappear into the night, until there is no trace of them ever having been here except the adrenaline running through Yaz’s veins.

She could forget it even happened in the morning. No one would believe her—and who would even ask?

The Doctor finally turns to look at her, her cool gaze appraising. The sharp edges of her hair get lifted up by the wind, lifted away from her jaw to dance, hypnotised. Yaz, too, is hypnotised.

The Doctor leans against the wall, hands in her pockets, and waits for the breeze to pass. Watching Yaz.

It feels like she has always been watching Yaz. And the thought is intoxicating, almost freeing.

Yaz grins back.

The bar is dingy and awful and loud, and full of sweaty people. Yaz hates it, and loves it at the same time. The Doctor simply hates, if the curl of her lip is anything to go by. But, as the patron, the dancers part like the Red Sea for her, so that must surely be one thing she can tolerate.

Yaz certainly can. She hold the Doctor’s hand the entire time, and there is a certain thrill of giddiness as she follows. She can feel eyes on her, curious, awed, and it makes her feel powerful. Known.

There is a back room to this place, designated for the higher-ups only. It is plush and discreet—and all theirs. There are bars of neon lights above, blanketing the sofas and refreshments—wine, water and chocolate—in a red glow.

The Doctor is wordless, until the door is closed, and then she is too close, and too much, all at once. Yaz can’t breathe. Can’t think. She collides against the door—did she fall or was she guided?—and feels the Doctor’s mouth hovering over the gap between her jaw and the collar of her coat.

Her hands find the Doctor’s instinctively. This has been the narrowing of her world for the past months—years, even. Fingers clutching at her waist and a dark promise of release. Only it never comes, it builds and builds, and Yaz is desperate.

When she is not in the Doctor’s vicinity, she is desperate. The world is so dull around her—so helpless.

The night in this city has found her, and spills through into her soul, wrapping itself around her organs and smothering her.

And she _loves_ it.

She can feel the Doctor shiver at her exhalations. This is Yaz’s desperation—she is the delectable touched, but there is that small question hovering between them. And it always will, if she doesn’t do something about it.

‘I want you to turn me,’ she finally says. She is surprised at how necessary it sounds.

The Doctor straightens, gazing at Yaz again. There is shock, but there is also giddiness there in her eyes.

Yaz aches in so many ways.

‘I just killed a vampire in front of you,’ the Doctor states, ‘and you want me to turn you?’

It replays in Yaz’s head. But—again. Guilt, horror, relief. Mostly relief.

‘You’ve done it before,’ she answers. Swallows.

Holding hands isn’t enough, suddenly. She lets go to smooth her palms over the Doctor’s hips, over the curve of her waist. She feels every second intensely.

Then there is a hand near her head, flat against the door, sudden and loud. The Doctor leans over her—and Yaz stops breathing. Always the scent of her: cherries and mint and something lower, heavier, muskier.

‘That will be you,’ the Doctor murmurs. She presses a kiss on Yaz’s jaw, just below her earlobe. ‘Blood on your hands. In your mouth.’

Yaz nods. She knows. She has thought about this a lot. About what she’d be losing—and who. But she puts them in enough danger as it is, and she knows they resent that. They slip away from her every day.

At least this way, she has a little more control over it.

‘I want this,’ she says.

In the end, it is all the Doctor needs. Of course. This is no sweat off her back.

Still, she does allow Yaz a final pause. Sculpted eyebrows raise, and it catches Yaz off guard.

There is an inherent friendliness to her face, Yaz thinks. and it is what makes her actions so disarming. In another life, she could’ve saved worlds and been a hero. But in this world, it is different. One smile will lead a victim to slaughter. Just as it is Yaz.

She smiles. ‘I know—it wasn’t exactly my intention at first—’

And the Doctor cuts her off, with a laugh. Good-natured, but unexpected. She looks amused; there is a light in her eyes, an excitement Yaz has glimpsed nowhere else.

She should hate it. But she can’t.

‘Of course it wasn’t,’ the Doctor grins. ‘But Yaz, my dear Yaz.’ Her hand travels up to Yaz’s cheek, a loving caress. ‘Did you honestly think you were ever gonna get out of this alive?’


End file.
